Reuben Part 1: the Power of Positive Thinking
by paulbc
Summary: The first of three stories tying Reuben Unmasked to the Partridge Family timeline. Reuben establishes himself after landing in 1969 LA with amnesia, and before meeting the group. This is all less about the Partridges, I realize, than my own little imaginary world of hippies, music, and time travel. (I love Dave Madden's Reuben, but I'm going for something different.)
1. A New Start

I wondered how long I had been on that park bench. Even with the mask over my eyes, it couldn't have been more than a few hours, but I had no idea how I got there. I'd figure that out later. Right now I needed to eat. I reached for my wallet. Nothing. No car keys either. Just a crumpled business card that had gone through the wash. I could barely read it. This was going to be... wait... something in my jacket, a pen and a thick envelope. Inside, there was a letter and another envelope.

I read the letter. It was from Danny, whoever he was. He wanted to know where I had been, why I had left. He was sorry he took my money. He was sorry he left his family behind and could I please tell them if I see them? It went on like that. All he ever wanted, he said, was to bring music to people and make them happy. He was doing it as an agent now and I had taught him everything he knew. He hoped I was doing well.

Money! OK, the rest was touching, but right now a cheeseburger would fit the bill. Let's see what's in the envelope. Some kind of plastic badge. Huh? And a stack of crisp $100 bills. Whoa! I guess that was the money Danny owed me. All right then, Danny. Call it even. No hard feelings wherever you are.

But what was the rest about? The gist was I was his manager when he was in a band. It hit me that I knew more about music than I knew about my own identity, so that part rang true.

I took a quick inventory. Based on the letter, my name was Reuben Kincaid. I had a pen monogrammed RK, a crumpled business card that might have been mine or anyone's really, and well, enough cash to get me by for a little while. Across from me was a newspaper box. According the LA Times, the year was 1969. That struck me as wrong. All the same, I struggled to come up with an alternative.

What next? It's "time to go downtown, where the agent man won't let you down" I quoted reflexively. Well, I was the agent man, or close enough. Maybe I had an office downtown. I was out of other leads.

I was nervous about paying for lunch with such large bills, so I hoofed it through LA on an empty stomach. I had an idea of where my office should be, but when I got there I didn't recognize the buildings. Hunger won out, and there was a lunch counter. First things first.

As I walked in, a man called out, "Reuben." Finally! I walked up to him.

"Hi. Do you know me? I mean, do I know you?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Well my name is Reuben..."

"Catchy." He cracked a smile. "I'm just ordering the sandwich."

Boy did I feel embarrassed. But at least we were talking.

"Best east coast deli menu in LA." He observed. "Just shoot if you see them reaching for an avocado." He formed his hand into a pistol.

"Oh. I wonder if you can help me. I'm trying to make a start."

He winced. "If you have a demo tape, bring it to my office. I don't do business here." He added "Say, aren't you a little old for this?"

"Demo tape. No. Are you a music agent? Seriously? That's what I am, or was, or should be." Limply, I explained, "I can't find my office."

"Really. Well that's new. As long as you don't have a demo tape. Not yours, not anybody's. Promise?"

Automatically, I felt my pockets again. "No tape. That's a promise I can keep."

"I have an hour to kill, sandwich man, and against my better judgment I find you amusing. You ordering?"

"One problem. All I have is this." I pulled out my stack of $100s.

"You really did fall off the turnip truck! Waving that around in Los Angeles? Put it back."

"Well I thought I could cover both bills." I caught myself.

The funny thing is, I was sure two lunches would bring it above $20 at least and I'd get change back. Then I saw the prices. We could both have sandwiches, sides, and drinks and barely make it past $5. What kind of amnesia was this? There were things I knew and a lot of things I'd need to learn.

"Eh, hold onto your money. I'll spot for lunch. I had a good week. You ought to get yourself a bank account if those bills are real." He paused. "So you want to be an agent? I don't hear that line often."

We got our orders and sat at a table. He had a briefcase with him and took out a ditto sheet. With that old-fashioned purple printing. Who still used that? The sheet had a list of rock bands in alphabetical order.

"Those are the bands you represent?" I blurted.

"Yeah... yeah, that's right." Under his breath: "Turnip truck."

"No, of course they're not." I blushed. "But..."

"See, when I work with a new band, I try to get a sense of their influences, styles, who they know they're copying, who they don't know they're copying. It's my system and I carry copies of this sheet to make notes every time I hear a tape."

"OK..."

"Well, I thought I'd use it to give you a quiz. Take a look at this list and tell me what you know about these bands."

I looked over the names and couldn't help myself: "The Byrds and the Airplane did fly..."

"Right, but that's just a song lyric. Got anything else?"

"Well, the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967 ..." I began, suddenly feeling like a walking encyclopedia.

"Were you at Monterey?" He interrupted.

"No." I conceded. "I was not. But... but a guy I knew was and he made a tape. I don't know how many times I listened to that. I must have read everything I could find about that festival." (And now I wondered how much could have been written in two years.) "I know Monterey like I know the back of my hand."

"Go on."

I went through the entire festival from beginning to end, named every band and told him everything I knew. He seemed satisfied. "It's a damn shame about Otis Redding." I finished.

"Yep. OK. You know your stuff. No question. That makes you a fan, not an agent. Still, you got my attention."

Now he wrote down the name of a band he did represent. "What do you know about this one?"

"Well, they were successful for about two years. Came close to charting. Then the lead singer cashed out and moved up to Napa to start a vineyard..."

"Uh, what? They're cutting their first single tomorrow! I got them the contract. That's why I'm in a good mood if you hadn't noticed." He looked straight at me. "You know, you're right the lead singer said he wants to retire to Napa. It's a liability. I never gave it much thought."

"Right." I hastily backpedaled. "I was just... um... speculating. I give them about two years, solid performance, not star potential. Then they break up."

"That's awfully specific for speculation. But OK." And maybe that was just how my agent mind worked. It's like I had a memory of them folding in 1971, but it couldn't be a memory, just a hunch.

I looked back and shrugged.

"Tell you what. I have a backlog of tapes. You want give 'em a listen and tell me what you think? I can't pay much, but we can work something out on commission... If you're good enough. Looks like cash flow isn't your problem anyway. Get that money in the bank before you get mugged."

I started to reply. He cut me off.

"I'm serious."

Not a bad day, I thought, for waking up on a park bench. Tomorrow I'd get started on those bands.


	2. Carburetor Trouble

The hotel manager wasn't thrilled with my disheveled appearance and lack of ID, but was persuaded by two weeks cash prepayment. In return, he offered a room and a promise to kick me out without refund if I was "One of those, you know."

One of what? I bit my tongue. I had a feeling that there should be strong anti-discrimination laws, at least in LA. Maybe he thought I was a drug user? A political agitator? Anyway, I promised to behave myself. The main thing was I had scored a real mattress, electricity, and functional plumbing. I was no longer bench guy! As a bonus, I had some change in more manageable tens and twenties.

There was still the question of identity. That was going to make it tough to set up a bank account. Harold (the agent) was right that I better get my cash some place safe. I would, but for now I crashed hard, knowing I needed to meet him at eight o'clock sharp the next morning.

I showed up right on time, but there was no sign of Harold. I knew it was all too good to be true. I had nothing else planned for the day, so I just milled around.

By 9:30, it was looking like a complete bust. I thought about getting coffee. That would involve crossing the street and leaving Harold's office out of view. I couldn't afford to miss him. The address was on a professional-looking business card. If this was some kind of con, it was an elaborate one. Worse, maybe he just forgot about me.

By 11, just as I was about to leave, there was Harold. I was close to throttling him, but restrained myself.

"Reuben, I'm really sorry. It's all my fault. Thanks for being so patient. I had to get a cab here..."

"It's OK. We could have agreed to meet later."

"No, I like to start new business as early as I can. Trouble was, my car stalled and I had to bring it to the shop."

I listened.

"It's the carburetor. They're doing a complete rebuild."

"Really? You don't have fuel injection?" That seemed odd to me. Or maybe it was a classic car.

"Sure I do." He grinned ear to ear. "Thing is, I save my 'fuel-injected Stingray' for the strip. You want to get out your 413 and have a race?"

"Nah," I parried. "I'll stick with my little deuce coupe." I let a beat pass and deadpanned, "You don't _know_ what I got."

He chuckled.

I had him convinced I was joking all along till I added, "But seriously, isn't it all electronic now? They read the computer codes and..."

He whipped out his wallet and started talking into it. "Scotty, beam this man up! He is about to violate the prime directive." Then he laughed harder than I'd seen him do.

"Reuben. You are a trip. Like my hippie friends say, a real trip. A space trip. Do you even drive? Where did you learn about cars? From the Beach Boys and Amazing Stories? Seriously, computer codes?" And he laughed even harder.

My amnesia again. Once I got back on my feet, I really needed to see a doctor. I improvised as well as I could. "Yeah. You know, I was probably just thinking about an article in Popular Mechanics. I thought maybe some of the new electronics was coming out. And with you the successful agent and all, you'd have the latest."

"I have a Buick with a few years on it. It's fine. No hotrodder me, appearances notwithstanding." He smiled a little more warmly. "But hey, I am not hiring a mechanic. I want you to listen to my backlog, and I have a feeling you can be a real asset."

He led me into his office. What a mess! He wasn't kidding about the backlog. Shelves were filled with cassettes as was his desktop and a second table. Yet something in me felt a stir of excitement. I approached this as a forty-niner might approach an untapped vein of gold.

"You're not my only listener. Janet comes in some days. She's a conservatory student and this is a part-time gig for her. I count on her for technical evaluation, but I could use a little more intuition. You seem like an intuitive guy with those crazy hunches of yours."

"Where do I begin?"

"Believe it or not," he said, picking up cassettes one by one, "there's a system to this, and with your interest in Monterey..."

"I'm not limited to that."

"OK, we'll see, but I have a stack in mind that should keep you busy."

"You know, there's a bigger festival coming up in New York."

"Uh, well I heard some rumors. I don't think any bands have even signed yet. What do you know about it? What do you mean bigger?"

And I decided to keep my mouth shut, because realized I knew a hell of a lot more about the festival coming up in Woodstock, New York than I possibly could, than anyone could. This was freaking me out. "You know, just a hunch."

"Fascinating. Anything else?"

"Well, there's gonna be one in Northern California in..." I stopped myself. Altamont. And it's gonna be bad. It's gonna be death. Death of an era. I know it. "You know what. Enough of these hunches. Full disclosure, and I hope you won't hold it against me. You're talking to an amnesiac who woke up on a park bench, and I'm a little confused about nearly everything."

I told him the rest of my story. He eyed me suspiciously, and then made up his mind pretty fast.

"All right. Thanks for letting me know. Turnip truck, park bench, doesn't matter. I really need help with these tapes and you know the scene. I'm not sure if you know how to listen, but we'll soon find out."

He held out the stack of tapes.

"And get yourself to a doctor. I'm serious."


	3. Every Time in its Place

I looked at the cassettes in Harold's hands.

"Hate to flake out on you, Harold, but I'm starting to get a really bad headache."

"I understand, waiting all that time. You want to get coffee? Or you know, if you want to see a doctor this afternoon, I can recommend mine."

"Look, I don't even have an insurance card..."

"Insurance? Heh, I'm just talking about a checkup. He could fit you in today and he doesn't charge much."

Did a doctor like that exist anymore, I wondered. "No, I'm fine. But I might take you up on that some time."

And, I thought, I really might if I can't get some identification soon and decent medical coverage.

"A concussion is not something to ignore."

Well, who said anything about a concussion? I was little tired from getting up early, but my cognition seemed fine. It's true, I didn't know who I was and I seemed to have a number of delusional thoughts. Bottom line, the only kind of doctor that might help me was a shrink, and I wasn't eager to go that route.

"Thanks, man." I had a feeling I should talk that way. "You know, I probably just need a little more sleep. I'm stoked about hearing those tapes once my head is clear."

"Stoked, huh? You a surfer?" On second thought, I ought to go easy on the slang.

I wasn't lying about the tapes. It was all I could do to stop myself from listening to them right now, but I realized I better figure out what was going on before I made any more embarrassing mistakes. The things around me looked familiar enough but not quite what I expected. Of course a car wouldn't have a computer in it! Why would I think that? But somewhere they did. I was sure.

I told Harold I'd be back tomorrow and hightailed it to the library. It was a long walk through LA, but I had the whole afternoon. First, I'd read some papers, make sure I knew what was going on in the world. Who knows, it might jog some memories. Next, I had to figure out where my crazy ideas had come from. I had this notion that people had computers at home and some of them even had little phones they could carry around. There was a network connecting it all, the "internet" with something called "web pages." I was so deep into it I had names for all this.

The things around me looked new but they seemed so old. Cassettes? I remember using those but not for a long time. After getting straight on how things worked, I would check some of the trade journals, see what I could find out about current bands, their tours, their labels, and those upcoming festivals I somehow knew about. Then maybe I'd be ready to get busy with Harold and not sound like a freak.

The news was kind of what I expected, but felt like history to me. There was a war going on in Vietnam. Students were being drafted and there were a lot of protests. It didn't exactly surprise me. I knew about 1969. But I thought... OK, I thought I was a kid in 1969 and here I was and I'd guess around 40 years old. No matter what, I was going to learn and accept the reality around me. Was this amnesia or some kind of schizophrenia? Now I was really worried.

So how about those crazy ideas? I went to over to periodicals. Popular Mechanics, like I told Harold, seemed a good start. While I was at it I grabbed Popular Electronics and Popular Science. I grabbed some books too. I even picked up a few issues of Amazing Stories and other science fiction magazines. Why not?

I could glean a few things from all that. Electronics were getting smaller all the time. Solid state. They were printing transistors into complete "integrated" circuits. They might print whole computers one day.

There was some thought about people having computers in their house to store things like recipe cards, but more likely they'd have terminals. These, I understood were like a typewriter keyboard and TV screen. It connected to a big computer somewhere. So there _was_ a network. But really, it was very different from what I imagined and still years off.

Fuel injection. You could get it, but it was high end stuff. Luxury and sports cars, mostly.

The big technology news was all about going to the moon (didn't we already?) not too much about the kind of consumer electronics I imagined. I killed an hour reading science fiction stories, but that too was still mostly about space or aliens, not too much about everyday products. There was a story about time travel. Now that would almost explain my predicament if I was cracked enough to take it seriously. I laughed to myself.

Next task was to get up to date on music. Well, I _was_ up to date. In fact, I knew things that weren't in the most recent industry publications, but I felt certain they were true. There was no hint of a festival planned in New York. Harold had said he heard rumors though. What was that other one? Altamont.

Nothing about a concert there either. It took some digging to find anything about it. It turned out it was a place east of San Francisco, known mostly for a race track that opened in 1966. Maybe I was a gearhead, knowing about the fuel injection and that, but it seemed a stretch. The closest real town to Altamont was Tracy, and that name started me thinking. Tracy, little Tracy with her tambourine... my sister... where was she? The thought came and went in a flash. I must be going crazy.


	4. Tapes

I stayed at the library till closing and got a late dinner. It had been an eye opener to be sure, even if it still didn't make much sense. The year was 1969. Of that there was no doubt.

I made sure it wasn't a dream. Wondering if you're dreaming, I'll grant, is normally the first sign you are. In this case, I read a passage in a book, read it over, and read it once more for good measure. The words were the same every time. This was not the transient, half-formed writing I saw in my dreams. No, this was reality, the thing that does not go away (as I'd heard it defined) when you stop believing in it.

At least I wouldn't be making any more foolish mistakes. No matter what I think I _should_ find around me, I had a good enough roadmap for what I _would_ find. And I was sticking to the map. Everything else would have to sort itself out. I was happy to think I had a place to sleep, enough cash to get by, and a new job starting tomorrow. I got some rest and woke up with a clear head, ready to meet the day.

As I approached Harold's office, I heard two voices, neither of which was Harold's. There were two women in the office. One was becoming animated.

"You see, half of them can't play at all..." (I noticed the way she said "half") "and the rest... well, half of them could bloody well use some more lessons before wasting my time. After that, you have the ones completely strung out, I mean not just high, like everyone these days but strung out on God knows what. Now, what are we down to, an eighth? This is where you finally ask if anyone wants to listen to what they're playing. I've got an answer for that too..."

"Janet" said a voice, also British but with a deeper timbre, "This is a dream job. You get to come here and listen to bands all day, and all you do is complain. I can't believe you."

I knocked.

"Sorry." said a voice I recognized as Janet's, opening the door. "I get a little excited sometimes. You're Reuben, are you? Harold's told me about you. You must have heard me from outside. It's not as bad as all that. There are some good bands in this lot."

"Pleased to meet you, Janet. And..."

"This is Sylvie, my dear friend from uni."

"Pleased to meet you too Sylvie. Is Harold here?"

"He's not, as far as I know, but Janet could tell you more. I better get going now, or I'll miss my flight to Kingston. Janet, you must come visit Jamaica. It's not a desert like your Los Angeles."

"My Los Angeles? It's not mine. It's not even a proper city. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here in the first place." Janet softened a bit and crinkled her eyes. "Then I think, oh yes, Harold and his tapes. Where would he be without me?"

"Janet," Sylvie interrupted, "I really do have to go. It was lovely." They hugged briefly and Sylvie was gone.

Janet forged ahead, absent her friend. "Actually, this isn't my real job. I'm a cellist. Mum and Dad are in the Philharmonic, and of course they expected me to study on the continent, but I thought with all the opportunities for session musicians, LA was really the place for a modern girl like myself."

I was lost on how to respond to all that.

She switched to the worst American accent I'd ever heard. "Anyway, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it."

"Well, I'm sure there are a lot of opportunities. I was hoping to talk to Harold."

"Harold'll be in later. I come in early sometimes. He trusts me with this, you know. Lucky me." She dangled a key. "I have your tapes and Harold asked me to help you get started."

"That'd be great."

"Mind you, if it were up to me, I'd have this office cleared in an afternoon. I doubt there are ten demos here worth considering. If Harold would let me, I'd toss the rest. Instead he has these ditto sheets to fill out."

"Yes, I've seen one of those."

"His 'system'. A waste of ink if you ask me. And he ought to get himself a proper mimeograph machine at the rate he goes through his little worksheets."

She explained what was expected of me. It didn't strike me as that unreasonable. Anyway, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I was a man without papers in a city that seemed both strange and familiar. This was my one chance to get established.

"We've got a second tape player here." She pointed. "There's not much room, but with headphones we can work at the same time if we need to. You'll have the place to yourself when I'm off practicing, which is a fair bit. Harold comes in and out. Your tapes are over there on the shelf."

Next to the tapes, I saw a manila envelope. The return address said "San Pueblo." Where was that? I felt I should know.

"This envelope."

"That's not with your tapes. Actually, Harold just keeps it as a souvenir. A boy from up north mailed it to him. I don't know how he managed to track down a real agent. Clever."

I let her continue.

"It's all quite adorable really. He plays in a family band. He made the recording without telling anyone. They're not half bad, you know."

"I'd like to listen."

"Well, let's talk to Harold first. He gets very possessive. There's no commercial potential, but like Harold says 'Who knows? That kid could be my client when he grows up.' Harold's mostly business, but he does have a heart."

"Yeah." I agreed. "He seems like a decent guy."

"My ears are burning." said Harold as he burst through the door. "So what are you kids up to?" Harold was at least a few years my junior and conscious of the irony.

"Tapes." I said.

"Yes, tapes, what else is there really?" added Janet.

"Indeed." agreed Harold. "But Reuben told me something about some festivals coming up, and I thought that might be worth delving into first. That one in New York, do you know something about it I don't? I only heard Creedence might have signed at this point, and that's pure rumor mill."

Now I got nervous. I better just keep my mouth shut because there is no way I could know what I did. I deflected.

"Well, it's true, I have a sixth sense about these things." And I put my fingers to my scalp, closed my eyes, and concentrated. "I'm seeing a vision right now."

Harold and Janet looked quizzically.

"I'm seeing... I'm seeing naked hippies, and they are... completely... covered... in mud. Yup, there's your festival Harold."

They laughed and Janet turned to me, genuinely amused. "Well, that doesn't take a bloody psychic, does it?"

"Harold, you're a lot better connected than I am. I was bluffing a little. Whatever I knew must be old news by now, but we should definitely keep track of this one."


	5. My Cheatsheet

Janet and I sat opposite in the small suite and listened on headphones. Harold kept himself busy in and out of the office and did his best to let us work. This was real work and I was relieved to have something to concentrate on besides my own strange situation. Janet had explained the pay policy. As Harold already admitted, it was not much, not unless we found a likely candidate anyway.

There was some truth to Janet's assessment. The vast majority of these bands were not going anywhere, though I shuddered to think of Janet being the one to break it to them. I dutifully filled out the sheets Harold supplied to us. Often, it was enough to note they were "influenced" by exactly one known band (more or less a low budget ripoff). It was a rule that I had to listen to the entire demo anyway and write a few sentences to make it clear that I had. This slowed down the process, and I began to understand Janet's frustration.

Harold to his credit was thorough and wanted to give everyone a fair chance. He'd given me a chance based on almost nothing, so I could hardly complain. Still, it was tempting to take shortcuts. I resisted it for now.

I found myself drawing on past experience as an agent. Danny had written that I was his band's manager, a different job I think, and I didn't remember that at all. While my knowledge of music was generally clear and extended spookily into the future a few years, it was far less clear how I had attained it, though bits and pieces of this would surface at times.

I knew that to build up my agency, I had needed to understand something called "grunge" that was about to go big (seriously). I approached it as a business analyst would, certain that whatever I thought of the music, I could probably find analogies in past trends. I had dug up everything I could about long forgotten bands, and part of this research took me straight to 1969 Los Angeles.

While most of the demo tapes triggered no recognition, a few were so familiar that I could tell you their trajectory from finding an agent through performances and recording contracts to the not quite inevitable fade back into obscurity. I was at a crossroads. These predictions, if true, were more valuable than any wisecrack I might make about hippies at Woodstock. But it really would take a psychic to know any of it.

Maybe I should just level with Harold: "You know how I told you I was an amnesiac who woke up on a park bench. Well, I think I may be a _time-traveling_ amnesiac who woke up on a park bench." Yeah, that'd go over real well.

In evaluating these bands, I drew on my experience, which was considerable. But it seemed I had a mental cheatsheet that could tell me in some cases if the bands would be successful. How to navigate this? I handled it as well as I could. I tried very hard not to make assumptions, but all the same, it was easier to start with a conclusion and then rationalize it later. There was no way for me to be completely objective. I would still make sure I had something better than these hunches, at the very least something convincing to Harold.

I found one I liked, a minor band to be sure. Ignoring the things I knew about them and shouldn't, I wondered how they would sound to unbiased ears.

"Janet." I waved to get her attention and she took off her headphones. "Sorry, I really don't mean to interrupt your work, but I wanted some advice on a recording."

"Seeing as it's your first day." She smiled and I handed her my headphones.

As she listened, her face grew from pained to amused and back again. After 30 seconds or so, she took off the headphones and looked at me.

"Well, I can't honestly tell if they want to be The Doors or Strawberry Alarm Clock. To be clear, I'm not saying it's a fusion. I am convinced they are trying their hardest to sound like one or the other and just failing horribly."

"Sure, they're going for psychedelic and they're pretty heavy on keyboard..."

"I can tell you with confidence," Janet sniped, "that you have _not_ found the next Ray Manzarek."

"No, nothing like that. Janet, I hope you understand, we do not function as the _gatekeepers_ of pop music. Our job is to connect budding musicians with audiences in a mutually agreeable arrangement. It's a business. I think these guys have potential."

"Now you're starting to sound like Harold. Or perhaps a pimp." She sighed. "Maybe you have a point."

"Psychedelic won't be a thing much longer..."

"Now that _is _music to my ears, Reuben, but how could you possibly know that?"

"I don't, but everything comes to an end. I am pretty sure this band could use an agent. They won't be stars but they could play locally at some of the larger venues. They might even land a recording contract." (If my hunch was right, they would and Harold would get a cut, but they would never get serious airplay.)

"Well, you know, this may be more your bailiwick than mine." Janet shrugged. "Just run it by Harold. We do get to pitch our favorites."

Harold came in and walked over to me. "So how do you like it so far?"

"It's good. I mean, to be blunt, I don't think you have a gold mine here. But a silver mine? Maybe. Even if it's just copper, it's a rich vein."

"Reuben, you do know we're in the music business, right?"

"Sorry, I mean, I don't see any big hits coming out of the tapes I listened to. You can look at my sheets and see for yourself. But there's talent here, and the ROI on some of these..."

"ROI?"

"Um. Return on investment. I can't guarantee these bands will make you rich, but they will definitely be worth the effort of representing. I have a few in mind."

I pitched the one I had just been discussing with Janet.

"I don't know." said Harold. "I think psychedelic is on the way out."

"That's kind of the point: now or never. This one is ready to move with a built-in audience, but not for long."

"I like the way you think, Reuben. Not like some of the aesthetes here." We turned to Janet, who had taken off her headphones while we were talking.

"Well don't look at me. I've told you before, this isn't my job."

"Sure it is." replied Harold. "Even if you 'fancy yourself' a moonlighting cellist. And you're one of the best around. I would never doubt your impeccable taste in music."

"If only the audience shared it." I said without thinking.

"Exactly. Now this man," Harold said to Janet, "knows what business we're in. In fact, Reuben, I think I will take your band on. It's worth a shot."


	6. Meet the Band

I fell into a routine of listening to tapes, making comments in Harold's preferred format, and drawing his attention to the bands I knew from my mental cheatsheet. Sometimes I'd find a good band that was completely new to me, and I'd put that in the mix too. After all, I knew the business as well as anyone. No matter how I came up with a band, I always had a story to recommend it. I had a feeling the hunches were sure things though. They were just too real to ignore.

Janet and I got along well enough on the days we worked together. She ran rings around me when it came to the music itself. I started to doubt I knew anything about music. Janet had a cello score with her one day and I took a look just to make sure I wasn't fooling myself. Yes, I could sight read easily. I had even played an instrument once. I was certain of it, an electric bass. That seemed such a long time ago.

There remained the matter of establishing some kind of identity and getting my money in the bank. I had no easy answer. Harold paid me in cash for now. I kept the room at the hotel on a week-to-week basis. The manager still suspected me, but I'd been a model guest. He probably thought "better the devil you know" particularly when that devil is paying a week upfront and not bothering the night clerk about the ice machine.

I dropped any thought of seeing a doctor. I felt fine. Who should I see instead, a fortune teller? Or pursuing the time travel angle, maybe take a trip over to Pasadena and ask the scientists at Caltech to help me out. Quantum weirdness? Who could say? Whatever it was, it wasn't harming me and even seemed to help. I would go with the flow for now.

Janet was an early riser and often in the office before me. This morning, I heard several voices inside. I knocked to avoid surprising anyone and went in.

With Janet were three men with droopy mustaches and expressions to match. They all had longish hair in varying shades of brown. Alongside was a slender young woman with golden blonde hair and lemon-tinted glasses that accentuated the sunniness of her overall bearing. The men were wearing colorful vests over T-shirts and the woman wore a simple dress that looked suitable for a recital. I wasn't sure if this was their "look" or they just dressed that way.

"Reuben," said Janet, "Here's your band."

"My band?"

"Well, the one you pitched to Harold."

"Thanks, man." Middle Droopy addressed me directly. "You don't how long we've been looking for an agent."

Janet turned to him. "Reuben really, uh, dug the organ solo."

"Groovy." I affirmed, meeting his eyes.

"Keyboard is me!" said the woman, excitedly. "I'm the keyboardist."

Janet gave her a closer look. "I've seen you about, haven't I?"

"Maybe. Do you study an instrument too? Mine's harpsichord."

"Yes, we must have passed in the hall. Baroque? If you don't mind my saying, you don't look the type."

"Well, my parents had me taking piano lessons since before I can remember. But then there was The Addams Family. I loved that show!" She held both hands up and snapped her fingers twice. "With Lurch on the harpsichord..."

Janet looked completely lost so I interjected. "American TV. Must not have made it across the pond."

"Never watch telly, so I really wouldn't know. Do go on."

"It was just the sound, so evocative, almost spooky. I knew it was my instrument."

"Little box of strings," replied Janet. "Made obsolete by the pianoforte. Maybe, you know, if you really want that 'authentic' sound. If you're an antiquarian." She stopped herself. "But no, it's rather nice, really. It's an unusual interest, not the sort of thing you hear much in this city."

Middle Droopy, who appeared to be the spokesman of this ensemble, chimed in. "And having a chick on the keyboard." (Janet rolled her eyes.) "It really sets us apart from the other psychedelic acts. Our own Lurchette on the Vox organ. Who else has that?" He clumsily mimicked fingers banging on the keys.

Harold arrived, and in the nick of time it appeared.

"Sorry I was running a little late, but here I am. Let's talk business."

Janet and I excused ourselves from Harold's office. It was in his hands now. We went across the street for coffee. After an uncomfortable silence, Janet began.

"They're not very good."

"Well..." I started, before realizing I had no reply. I was beginning to have my own doubts.

"I quite liked the keyboardist. Frankly, she'd be better off ditching those plonkers."

Now I had to object. "It's entertainment. There's more to it than music."

"Reuben, you may be right." She sighed. "Anyway, Harold will sort it out."

I thought about what she said. What if the keyboardist had a successful solo career? I concentrated and tried to see her future. Nothing. It was clear I either knew something or I didn't. Whatever I knew about the future came as a memory I had already formed somehow. I was in no sense a prophet or seer. Where the cheatsheet didn't go, I was as blind as anyone else. It was a relief in a way. She continued.

"One thing, I was curious about. Why aren't you running your own agency? You seem a lot more interested in the business side. And you're clearly experienced."

"You mean this." I pointed to my graying hair and considered what I should tell Janet. "Things don't always go the way you like." And I thought I'd leave it at that.

"Well, I do think you ought be doing more than screening demos. I only do it to fund my studies myself."

We sat and drank our coffee. She didn't insist on tea in a rare concession, I thought, to American culture. We switched from talking about my career to discussing Harold and his bands. She gave me a longer explanation of how she wound up in Southern California. It wasn't too far off from her capsule summary, but it became clear it was not her first choice.

Despite everything, I could tell she enjoyed being connected to the entertainment industry, and... well I hadn't heard her play, but it did seem a sensible place to be if she wanted to work as a session cellist. There were film scores, and pop music had been pulling in classical instruments for years already.

"I reckon Harold's done. Shall we go back?" Janet suggested.


	7. The Gig

We found Harold alone in his office writing in his datebook. I turned to him.

"So..." I began a little nervously.

"Reuben, your band was... interesting."

I waited.

"Actually, the only one of them with any real musical training is the 'chick at the keyboard,'" he finger-quoted. "The others can more or less read music but just barely. They've been playing together since they were teens. They found the keyboardist through a classified ad. She's been with them about three months."

Janet stood by listening, whether it was out of solidarity with me, the new guy, or just morbid curiosity.

Harold continued. "They've played high school dances, that kind of thing. One plus is they've written a lot of their own material. So it's at least there, whether it's any good I don't know. I'll... I'll see if I can get them a club engagement.

"Thanks for the lead, Reuben." he concluded.

So, I thought, not an auspicious beginning, but at least a beginning. Yet I was sure this band had traction. I had a distinct memory of reading about their act. It had required a deep dive into microfilm and other archival material (I took my research seriously) but there were local reviews and they had eventually developed a following that culminated in a recording contract.

That or I really _was_ crazy. An imaginary career as a music agent in some unspecified future was an awfully thin thread to hang on.

Harold sensed my disappointment. "But look, your screening notes have been very thorough. I think you're doing a bang up job and I'm happy to have you. In fact, there's one tape I'd like to talk about."

It was one where I had no special edge, no entries on my mental cheatsheet. But they were good, I had no doubt of it.

Janet spoke up. "Oh. Reuben asked me to listen to that one." A smile formed and was swiftly suppressed. "They may be worth pursuing." High praise indeed.

Though I felt uncomfortable about sticking my neck out today, I had at least shown my worth. If the first band didn't pan out, well it could be dismissed as a quirk. I shrugged it off and kept going.

Days went by as I threw myself into the job. There was always a lag between marking a band for followup and actually inviting them in. Eventually, we met the band we had discussed, the one I could safely say we all liked. Harold broke his normal rule and asked Janet and me to join.

"So how is it we've never heard of you before?" Harold began.

"Well, we're a house band," said their lead singer. "I guess our club has treated us OK. We only just got ambitious enough to move to an agent."

Janet turned to him. "I enjoyed your demo tape." Her eyes were actually twinkling.

"Thank you. We always like to hear that. So... um... we were just wondering."

"Next steps, of course." Harold filled in. "Well, I have a few engagements in mind. I can't guarantee anything of course. You ought to thank Reuben for drawing my attention..."

"Me?"

"You know, for screening their tape." Harold explained.

"Solid work." I nodded. "Not much else to say. I think anyone who heard that tape would call you back."

"Sure, Reuben, but you were the first to recommend them. Anyway..."

Harold wanted to discuss terms in more detail and motioned Janet and me to leave. All in all, it seemed a successful day. Janet and I moved across the street for coffee. We passed the time mostly in small talk this time. There wasn't much to discuss, and I think neither of us wanted to jinx the new client.

Just a few weeks passed before Harold lined up a gig for the new band. It was a big venue, still mostly local clientele, but in this city, "local" included people with a lot of influence. It could work out as a showcase and we'd move on from there. I think we were all pretty excited, but we kept our cool.

As the day approached, I got nervous. You never know. They could bomb no matter what we thought. There was no doubt they were excellent musicians and experienced performers. The key, as I'd tried to emphasize to Janet before, was whether there was an audience for them.

And of course, I had nothing else to go on, none of that uncanny knowledge about the future. If they were really that successful I'd know. I was certain of it.

I slept fitfully, and my nights were filled with dreams that felt like an entirely different life.


	8. The Power of Positive Thinking

One of my dreams was unusually vivid.

I was running my own agency, instead of just helping out. Other things had changed from my day to day life. The way people talked was a little different, their clothing more so. The look and feel of common objects was also different. That was especially true of electronics, a point that was hard to ignore as I met an acquaintance in my dream at his radio station.

"Good to have you here, Raymond." I recognized that as my name for some reason. "We have archives going back 30 years at least. Not complete, I mean who could keep all those tapes? But you're welcome to nearly anything we have."

"I appreciate it. I'm kind of an amateur musicologist. It helps me in my day job."

"Archaeologist too, I hope? We have stuff here so old it'll 'blow your mind,'" he bragged. "I'm talking 'far out man,'" he added with exaggerated emphasis.

"Yeah, that's just what I'm looking for. All these forgotten bands. I've been reading about them. If I could just hear some interviews..."

"Raymond, we won't disappoint. We have bands nobody has heard from since 1972." He laughed and led me to a listening booth. "I'll be back with some tapes."

He returned and I sat listening to an old interview. A male voice jolted my dream mind. I had heard it somewhere.

_"Our first big break was pure luck."_

_The interviewer cut in. "I think I've heard that story."_

_"There was a club we used to drive past a lot and we'd always see who was on the, uh, big sign, you know."_

_"The marquee."_

_"Right. They were nobodies as far as we knew. So I said to my band one day, 'We have an agent now, why aren't we on that sign?'"_

_"With your talent." encouraged the interviewer._

_"And would you believe it, the next day we drive by and I see them taking down the letters, putting up 'Show Canceled'. I said 'This is our chance. We gotta call Harold now.'"_

_A female voice interjected, chirpy and also familiar somehow. "I don't call it luck. I call it the power of positive thinking."_

_"Positive thinking, eh?" laughed the interviewer. "Now rumor has it you're a big Addams Family fan. If I may be so bold, you don't sound like Morticia... or look like her."_

_"Not Lurch either, that's for sure." offered the male voice, "But she is the grooviest keyboard player in Southern Cal..."_

I woke up suddenly to the sound of a real radio announcer. My alarm clock had gone off. It was a morning news break.

"Traffic blocked on the 101 northbound. Head on collision with a driver heading south in wrong lane. Wreckage still being cleared."

I didn't have a car yet, much to my great inconvenience. Still, I thought about that crash. I hoped... well, what was there left to hope for in a collision like that? Eventually there were updates that confirmed the worst. The wrong-way driver was alone, assumed DUI, in the early morning. The other car had multiple passengers. I lay in bed listening. Another news report came in.

"The fatalities included members of a local rock band..."

I turned off the radio and suddenly felt sick. I had started to make connections in my mind, and while it didn't all make sense, I had a bad feeling about it.

I don't normally drink before noon, but when I do, I like a dark place to do it. Sunny California was more obliging than you might think. I wasn't looking for mai tais on the deck, needless to say. Good, because the first bar I found wasn't offering. As I walked down the steps, I wondered why they were open at all. I was the only customer. I sat at the barstool and ordered a bourbon, straight up.

"We get a little busier when the lunch crowd comes in," said the bartender. "But I have the feeling you're not looking for company."

"No, just..."

"I mean, you don't strike me as a drunk or anything. Something going on? Divorce?"

"Not exactly, but yeah, I just needed a stiff drink. In fact," I said finishing my shot. "I believe I need another."

"Sure thing, chief. Same?"

I didn't drink myself into a stupor. This was a respectable establishment. As the lunch crowd began to trickle in, I wanted to make sure I wasn't booted. I kept myself on a maintenance program of two drinks an hour. If I was right, it was going to be tough to face Harold. But it wouldn't help to face him with slurred speech.

By three in the afternoon, I got up the nerve to call Harold from a payphone. I'd switched to coffee and I was sober enough to fake it in a call.

"Reuben, you picked a hell of a day to be out."

"Sorry, um..."

"Look, your hours are yours. I pay you for your work. But you missed all the excitement."

"Really, what?"

"Well, did you hear about that crash on the 101?"

"Yeah, something I think. Fatalities."

"It's hard to know how to say this, but that was our band that got hit. The one that was going to play Friday. The whole band." He choked up a little. "They're all dead."

"Oh my God, that's terrible!" I tried to sound more surprised than I was.

"It's a tragedy. Janet's in tears. I've never seen her like this."

"Damn."

"Wait, that's not even the crazy part. You know, your band, that psychedelic one?"

"Yeah?"

"Well around lunch, I get a call from their lead guitarist. He says he noticed a show was canceled and wondered if there was any way they could get the gig." He paused. "I don't... I don't think they had any idea why the show was canceled."

"Sorry, not sure I'm following," I lied.

"The club where we had the gig, I'm amazed they changed their marquee that fast, but they did, and your guy noticed. I will give him credit for initiative if not raw talent."

"OK, so..."

"Well, of course I'll get them that show. I mean, the club would rather fill the spot than cancel!" He paused. "Um, that came out wrong. I was eventually going to find them something, Reuben, probably a smaller venue to start with."

"I understand."

"I didn't tell them why it opened up. Keep your fingers crossed those kids never put two and two together. I'd hate to spook them."

"My lips are sealed."

"Who knows?" said Harold. "This could be their big break."


End file.
